


the morning of the world

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Half-Sibling Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:00:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re wearing my shirt,” Jon says between kisses, hot and needy and messy kisses that have him so hard he can barely think.</p><p>“So take it off me,” Robb answers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the morning of the world

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt: One of my favorite tropes is someone accidentally/purposefully/unintentionally wearing their lover's clothes and unexpectedly driving the other person wild with desire. Bonus point if it happens before Jon leaves.

It’s just a tunic. There should be nothing untoward about it, nothing significant. Robb has shared Jon’s clothes since they were babes (though “stolen” might be a more accurate term for it; it’s one of the few ways they’re entirely unalike, Robb considering everything his and Jon knowing that even his name is not his own). There’s little about this particular piece of clothing that should make Jon think twice.

But for how Robb had stripped it from him the night before so he could suck hot marks on Jon’s chest and ribs to claim him as another thing Robb considers his.

The shirt is neat but threadbare, worn nearly to the point of disrepair. Jon doesn’t remember who had the shirt before him, but he knows it was a hand-me-down. Not that Jon hasn’t had fine, new clothes, same as all the Stark children. There could be no complaint in how Jon has been treated by Lord Stark, no fault found in his upbringing, which was nearly that of a noble child, despite his bastardy. Even Lady Stark’s lack of warmth is something Jon can understand. Her love is another thing that belongs to Robb, to all the Stark children, and Jon would never have expected such a thing anyway. He could have had more fine clothes, if he wished, but he’d always been more comfortable in things that had been lived in. Things that would be discarded, or cut up into rags. Things that were his because no one else wanted them. No one, it seems, but Robb, who is wearing Jon’s shirt as if it were tailored expressly for him.

“There’s some bacon left,” Robb says around a mouthful of bread – too full a mouthful, Sansa would point out with tart disapproval – “but I ate your apple.” He slides a plate on to the small desk in Jon’s room, grinning when Jon winces at the clatter. Gods, but he is never drinking wine again. “But don’t feel bad, it wasn’t that great of an apple.”

Jon sighs and rolls his eyes. No wonder the shirt looks too small for Robb, binding a bit at the shoulders so that it can’t be fully laced – Robb’s gotten fat on Jon’s meals. Or perhaps he’d gotten bigger than Jon long ago, after he’d stopped casually slipping into whatever clothes he found on the floor of the room they shared until they were 10, no matter whose clothes they were. 

“How is it I feel like Ghost vomited into my skull and you’re bright and chipper?” Jon groans, throwing his arm over his eyes. Last night is a painful haze in the even-more-painful light of day; they’d stolen four skins of wine – “One for you and three for me!” Robb had said cheerfully, though it had ended up being the other way around – and had retreated to Jon’s room to get drunk in celebration (or lament) of his decision to go to the Wall.

“Because I’m better than you at everything,” Robb shrugs. He’d taken the news, that Jon was leaving to take the black, surprisingly well. He’d frowned at Jon at first, as if Jon had spoken in some foreign tongue that Robb didn’t know, but then he’d clapped Jon on the back, practically poured wine down his throat, he’d laughed and joked with Jon about memories they shared – more things Jon couldn’t call solely his own – and hadn’t tried to talk Jon into staying. It didn’t disappoint Jon. Surely it didn’t. He _wants_ to go, there is no place for him here. He hadn’t wanted Robb to ask him to stay. At least that’s what he told himself. He’d told himself that until the laughing had died away, and there was only Robb close to him, sharing space until they were sharing breath, until Robb tasted Jon’s tongue with his own and Jon was another thing that belonged to Robb.

Though they’d kissed a handful of times before – furtive, fumbling kisses that spoke of their inexperience, and their eager interest in changing that to experience – they’d never gone as far as they had last night. It’s all Jon can see now when he closes his eyes: Robb’s face etched behind his eyelids, Robb’s mouth on Jon’s, his lips and teeth exploring Jon’s jaw and throat and the bow of his collarbone from one shoulder to another. That’s when Robb had stripped off the shirt and thrown it to the floor. That’s when Robb rubbed over Jon’s cock through his breeches and the world had become someplace new and different and terrifying and perfect.

There’s nothing on Robb’s face now as he climbs onto the bed beside Jon that suggests he even remembers last night, let alone thinks anything of it. It puts a sick weight in Jon’s belly; is he truly only one more thing that Robb thinks his to take? But then Robb makes a funny sigh, he slides down flat on his back and fists one hand in Jon’s hair to tug Jon down to his kiss, and the sick feeling blooms into need, into sheer, unwieldy _want_ , and suddenly he no longer feels the effect of last night’s wine.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” Jon says between kisses, hot and needy and messy kisses that have him so hard he can barely think.

“So take it off me,” Robb answers.

It’s strange how Robb’s body can be so familiar to Jon and so completely new at the same time. He thinks he could draw a map of every freckle with his eyes closed, but still there’s a thrilling sense of discovery as he touches each with the tip of his tongue, trailing up Robb’s chest as he reveals each inch of skin in the wake of the tunic. It tangles at Robb’s arms – Jon’s weight pins him down even as Jon struggles to pull the cloth free – until Robb sits up and takes Jon with him, tugging the shirt over his head in one easy movement and pulling Jon back down with him, skin on skin, closer than brothers. Perhaps it should feel wrong. It doesn’t, and Jon doesn’t care, he _won’t_ care, because this is his, this one thing is _his_ and he won’t feel sorry for it.

They’re rutting at each other like animals, their breeches rustling against the linen sheet, against their skin. Robb is making these sounds – sharp gasps and guttural grunts – and they flay Jon’s reserve, they burrow under his skin and set him on fire. This is what he leaves behind. In a sudden moment of sharp clarity, he thinks that maybe it’s _why_ he leaves, or at least part of it. To see Robb marry, to see his wife bear heirs for Winterfell…Jon thinks he might rather die. But until he goes, he’ll make Robb his.

Each mark he sucks on Robb’s chest mimics those Robb left on him in the night – he sucks a dark bloom on his collarbone, on his ribs, over his heart. Then he shifts down, he unties Robb’s breeches even as Robb asks, “What? What are you… Jon, are you…” and when Robb’s words dry up with the touch of Jon’s tongue on his cock, Jon feels triumph burn through his veins like wildfire; no one has touched Robb this way, Jon knows it with more certainty than he’s ever felt about anything. This is Jon’s. This belongs only to him and it only ever will, no matter whom Robb weds or how many others he beds.

The words tumble from Jon’s mouth without his permission. “Mine,” he says to Robb, “you’re mine, you’ll always be mine.” Robb does not disagree; he fists his hands in Jon’s hair, bucks his hips up with an involuntary jerk. Jon obliges the unspoken request, closing his mouth around Robb’s cock in the way he’s always dreamed of Robb doing to him. He hollows his cheeks and sucks, draws back to lick and lavish, then sinks back down as far as he can manage without choking.

He wants to swallow – wants to take one more piece of Robb, have him in one more way – but he can’t manage it. Instead he strokes Robb through his release, watching it stripe over his belly and Jon’s knuckles in hot spurts. Once Robb has finished, only shivers left, Jon reaches for his shirt – the shirt Robb had taken and worn – to wipe Robb clean, but Robb stays his hand.

“No,” he says quietly. “Not with this.” Instead Jon tugs the linen sheet from beneath Robb’s hip for the task. Robb is shivering like a small animal, like Sansa does at thunderstorms, and Jon doesn’t want to let him go. The skin stretched over Robb’s hipbone is hot and soft when Jon lays his cheek there, Robb’s softened cock still in his hand.

“Why didn’t you ask me to stay?” he asks, the words surprising him as he hears them aloud. They sound so plaintive, so small and pitiful. This is something that is Robb’s, only Robb’s. Only Robb may have Jon’s weakness, his fear, his need.

“Would you have stayed if I asked?” Jon feels Robb’s fingers spear through his hair again, but this time they’re gentle, almost tender. They stroke through the tangles and rub small circles on Jon’s scalp that soothe him even as they intensify the ache of his still-unsatisfied desire.

“I would have wanted to.”

“Then that’s why I didn’t ask,” Robb tells him, and Jon knows then that he’s thought the same things Jon has. He’s imagined himself wed with Jon there as only witness, and Jon thinks perhaps Robb would rather die than have such a thing be true, same as Jon.

“Why the shirt?” he asks, to keep himself from babbling all his feelings, all the soft pieces of him that he has to hide if he’s ever to leave. “Why wouldn’t you let me use it?”

Robb looks down at him, his eyes so impossibly tender that Jon feels a flush creeping into his cheeks and he has to fight the urge to duck his head. Then, in a movement so swift it leaves Jon dizzy, he hauls Jon up his body and rolls them over until Robb is lying half atop him, his bare cock so hot that Jon swears he can feel it through his breeches.

“Because I’m keeping it,” Robb says as he pushes his hand past the placket of Jon’s breeches, his hand curling around Jon’s cock and squeezing. His calluses rub in a way so maddening that Jon thinks he might come right then and there, spilling into Robb’s hand and probably ruining his breeches in the process. Jon doesn’t care. There will always be more clothes to inherit, more things to adopt as his own. There will only ever be one Robb, and this is all Jon will have of him.

“Why are you keeping it?” Jon pants, holding Robb’s wrist as he bucks up into Robb’s hand, needing his release too much to prolong it even as he wants this to last. Robb shakes Jon’s hand free, only to crawl up and straddle his hips, their cocks rubbing against each other in a way that makes Jon think he could jump out of his skin. Robb pins Jon’s shoulders with both hands and leans down, close enough that their foreheads are touching and Robb’s face breaks and stretches in Jon’s vision.

“Because I would have part of you when you’re gone,” Robb answers. He swallows up his name on Jon’s lips with his mouth, claims Jon’s tongue, and Jon knows that in this, they belong to each other. They will only ever belong to each other.


End file.
